After her divorce from Lance Armstrong, the author discovers her own athletic potential-and the healing power of running.

I have washed clothes for an athlete, massaged an athlete, bandaged wounds for an athlete, cheered my heart out for an athlete, prepared pasta al dente for an athlete, but never in 32 years did I consider any athletic potential living within the confines of my own body.

This body has undergone quite a metamorphosis from the clothes-rack purposes of my early twenties to the respectable status of bearing and nursing my three children in my thirties. After the birth of my daughters in November 2001, I was busy and tired, yet restless. Maybe I wanted to flee the weight of my responsibility. Maybe I craved clarity and wanted to erase the fog that often hung over my head. Be it an escape, a challenge, or an opportunity to be alone, I began to run. And last December, four days before my divorce from cyclist Lance Armstrong, I did something I never thought I could do. I ran my first marathon.

I'm lucky to have two great friends and athletes as my running partners. Kristen Turner (K.T.) is an Ironman finisher, personal trainer, and mother of two. Paige Gressett Alam is a veteran of 14 marathons and a mother of two. Starting in September, we hit the road every Saturday at 6 a.m. to run the hills of central Austin, Texas, anywhere from five to 22 miles. They created my training program and led me through it (with help from our friend and coach Cassandra Henkiel). I never wanted to know much, not the distance, our pace, none of it-a welcome escape from the pressures of too many other decisions. I met them at the appointed hour, took GUs and hydrated when they told me to, and put one foot in front of the other until they told me I was done.

I loved the morning runs, starting out in the pitch dark, praying for firm footing and deliverance from danger. Because we went so early, and were finished before most of civilization was brewing coffee, the running had a surreal quality to it. Almost like it never happened at all. But the ache in my knees when I carried my twins upstairs or the salt on my steering wheel later in the day would remind me that I had made my private journey long before I punched my mommy time card for the day.

The conversations you have on a long run are unlike what you have when you're chasing toddlers, refilling sippy cups, or retrieving pacifiers. I now got to hear and tell stories in detail, broken only by the occasional need to run single file. There is something to sharing a private burden or relating a painful experience while chugging down the road. It's less about advice or validation. The wisdom, tears, and laughter we shared gave me an insight and appreciation for my friends that I have not had since I was in college. And it's a good thing, too. Because come race day, I ended up needing these friends more profoundly than I expected.

The marathon was the Dallas White Rock, on Sunday, December 14. I woke at 5 a.m. to eat my ritual pre-long-run peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Paige and K.T. prepared the clothing, GU packets, ibuprofen, pace bands, time chips, and Chapstick, and pinned our numbers to our shorts. I was blissfully unaware as I let them tell me where to slather BodyGlide so my clothes wouldn't chafe and make me bleed. Bleed? Huh? My only rules were that if I lost a toenail or had to go number two, I was done.

It was below 30 degrees at the start. The prerace prayer asked for protection from bonking and injury, and reminded us to run with endurance the race set before us. It took about five miles to find my usual stride, but we were pushing faster than I was used to. I wondered if I should have asked more questions.

The marathon gets its name from White Rock Lake, which we looped around on the second half of the course. I joked that it was really an ocean. With each mile, I felt my surge become more of a sputter. A guy in front of me had what looked like an artillery belt packed with gels, PowerBars, and water bottles, which caused his blue shorts to ride up his behind. I focused on that to hold on to any semblance of my sense of humor-always important in a crisis situation. We finally made it to the end of the lake and turned up what they call "Dolly Parton Hill." That was at about mile 20, the proverbial "wall." I thought about Lance and his ability to withstand pain. And I thought that he might even be proud, and a little surprised, to see me hauling my tired body and toting my invisible pack of sadness over all those miles.

At mile 22 I could feel the rumblings of a revolution in my legs. By mile 24, I was getting cramps in my calves. I tried to drudge up breathing methods from childbirth classes. It helped just about as much as it did during labor (not at all). I fantasized about an epidural. I was breaking down, crying and hyperventilating, when I looked at Paige and said, "Can I really do this? Am I okay?" I thought my calf muscle was going to rip. Paige is the warmest person I know. But this was Paige the athlete. She said evenly, "Yes, Kik. You can do this and everything else. Now do it." And I kept running. Straight through the finish line into a pile of hugs and tears, in 3 hours, 48 minutes.

It was more than a novice athletic achievement, it was a journey of friendship, the healing power of sport, and the confidence of achieving a goal I once considered reserved for those with more talent and resolve. It was a reminder that with good company and hard work, regular people can do something special. And it was special. In my past life I gave everything I had to make a dream possible for someone else. On this day I gave everything I had to make a dream possible for myself.

It's an odd thing, when your body says no and your mind and your spirit say yes. It's frightening and empowering and clarifying and beautiful all at once. It was the past year of my life, shortened into a span of 26.2 arduous miles. It was the culmination of experiences, the knowledge that my body can be pushed past its breaking point, just like my heart. In both instances, when you come to the end of yourself, God's grace is all that sustains. And it is enough.